


Altered Material

by WolffyLuna



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Bittersweet, Fix-It, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Suicide Attempt, Symbolism, Torture, Victim Blaming, canon and fanon will be fixed whether they like it or not, cousin(?) incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 02:13:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17013603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolffyLuna/pseuds/WolffyLuna
Summary: He could tell people. Warn Gondolin of its impending doom. Maybe with preparation, they could oppose the might of Angband—no, they couldn’t.But to fight or not was Gondolin’s choice. They should be informed. The best choices were informed choices.And warning Gondolin would be a moral act, would at least somewhat counteract his betrayal. Bring him further up the moral high ground, or at the very least out of the moral bedrock.Maeglin is captured. Maeglin confesses. -- and Maeglin tries to carry on.





	1. Angband

**Author's Note:**

> Before we get to the fic, there's some people I need to thank first. 
> 
> Big thanks to [scripttorture](https://scripttorture.tumblr.com/) and [ scripttraumasurvivors](scripttraumasurvivors.tumblr.com), without whom this fic would either not exist or be much worse. If there are any mistakes in this work, that is my fault, and not theirs. (And also, the views of the characters very much do not reflect the views of the author. Very few of them know what they are talking about.)
> 
> And big thanks to [iodhadh](iodhadh.tumblr.com); eir [outlining method](https://iodhadh.tumblr.com/post/165709764378/the-outline-expansion-method-or-how-i-can-easily) was key for this fic existing as well.

Picks clattered and sung against the band of green and red rock. Chips and chunks flew off, and fell into baskets at their feet.

Behind them, hammers banged and sandpaper scraped, separating the gems from the matrix.

Maeglin wiped his brow, and passed his basket of rock chunks back to the sorters and cleaners, before taking up his pick again. It was an interesting formation, he thought, as he broke pieces off of it. The green mineral was unusual, and pretty enough. Not a gem though, and only hard enough to be annoying rather than useful.

Still he’d only found it here, at the foot of the mountains. Towards their roots.

They weren’t here for the green mineral. It was the garnets sitting in their matrix. Fine ones, deep and dark red, some as big as his thumb. Did Gondolin strictly need more garnets? No. Did Gondolin hunger for garnets? Of course. It was Noldor city. They hungered for gems the way human settlements hungered for bread, for wheat.

He passed another basket back.                                   

He could pay attention to things other than the rocks. The sun trying to burn his skin off. The dry air. The ache in his shoulders.

The rocks were more interesting. Kept his mind off the other things. What was special about here? Why was that green mineral so rare, why was it found here? Why under the tons of gabbro and serpentine crashing over the mountains like a wave, crushing the rocks beneath?

He pondered in circles, as the piles of garnets and waste rock grew taller behind him.

Someone shouted.

For a second, he thought it was shout of celebration, of someone finding a diamond or some other rarity.

But it was far too guttural.

Feet pounded behind him.

He spun around.

Orcs. Orcs had found them.

One ran up to him.

He swung his pick at it.

He was too wide.

It parried easily, lazily, with its sword.

Another ran up behind him. Grabbed him in a bear hug.

He struggled, trying to slip downward out of it grip. Trying to bite it, kick its shins. ( _I’m out of practice_ , he thought. Not much to be done for it now, though.)

The ambush finished as quickly as it started.

Each of his miners had been grabbed by an orc. No one dead.

That was concerning.

As much as he of course wanted to live, and as much as his miners presumably wanted to also—orcs didn’t take people alive in a _nice_ way.  Better to be spitted by an orc sword now, than be taken into the mines as a slave—or be spitted on an orc sword later for their amusement.

Hard to do anything about that with his arms pinned.

And there was always that thin, mostly false hope of escape to hold on to.

Tathrien cursed a blue and incoherent streak. “—I’m going to steal a werewolf, rip it’s testicles off, and then feed your already ripped off testicles to it—“

One of the loose orcs ruffled her hair. “She’s a cutie, ain’t she?”

She flinched away from the hand.  

“Tiny, more like,” an orc said

“She’s loud,” said another. It was better armoured than the rest, and carried bigger sword. The leader, Maeglin guessed. Orcish marks of leadership were so _crude_. “Shut her up.”

The loose orc grabbed a piece of cloth from its belt (And this looked more like kidnapping more every moment, Maeglin thought.) It pressed it into Tathrien’s mouth—she struggled, of course, but it had the advantage of being able to use its arms—and tied it around the back of her head.

The rest of the loose orcs started unwinding ropes from the hanks around their belts.

They tied the elves’ hands behind their backs, leaving long tails of rope afterwards.

The armoured one walked up to Maeglin. “You the leader?”

Maeglin said nothing. You didn’t say _anything_ to orcs. They may look stupid, but they were cunning enough to draw the implications of the simplest, least informative sentences. And once you started talking, it was easy enough to keep you talking.

The orc shrugged.  “You look like the leader.” It wiggled its hands into the gap between Maeglin and the orcs holding him, and tied his hands behind his back.

The orcs rearranged them, dragging them stumbling by the ropes into a rough line.

With Maeglin at the front. He frowned. This was going _poorly_.

The orcs tied them togather, wrist to wrist with only a metre and half of give.

 _It explains the tails, at least_ , Maeglin thought, trying to focus on the small stupid things over the larger pressing issue of being about to become a slave.

And the larger pressing issue of the leader-orc coming towards him with another bit of rope.

It slipped it around his neck.

It wasn’t quite a noose, and not quite collar and leash. Something between.

The leader orc held on to the other end, turned, and started walking.

It tightened around’s Maeglin’s neck. His mind screamed at him to _get it off, get it off_ \--  His hands tried to reach upwards to rip it off without his conscious thought, but they were stuck behind his back. Rope scraped across his wrists as he struggled. He breathed around it, but only half the air made it round to his lungs. Bruises welled under the rope.

It stopped tightening, just short of completely closing his throat—and it started pulling. It jerked him forwards.

He nearly fell on his face, and stumbled after the orc.

He turned it into a more controlled walk, quickly enough. It was a leash, more than noose. It was to keep him moving forward, and to keep all those behind him moving forward. He wanted to fight it, make the orcs fight him for every metre they moved forward—but while he was pretty sure it wasn’t designed to choke him to death, his death wouldn’t inconvenience the orcs that much.

A slave revolt would. And he needed to save his strength. Escape was a thin, false hope for more captives—but he had escaped the unescapable. He had a more reasonable hope. Keep his strength, play his cards right—and he and his miners would be out.

Tol-in-Gaurhoth was not that hard to leave. A significant portion of Gondolin’s refugees had got out of Tol-in-Gaurhoth.

The orcs kept them at a brisk pace, brisk enough that it would have been hard to keep up with breaks, water, and the use of both your arms.

Maeglin’s legs alternated between numb and burning. More than once, he’d fallen behind the lead orc and had been caught by the ‘leash’. Bruises and bruises layered on his neck. Bruises on bruises layered on his feet.

He glanced behind, the rope scraping along abraded flesh as he turned.  Hehel dragged Cenedion forward. Tathrien had chewed through her gag, and the orcs hadn’t bothered to replace. She was silent and glowering. As where the rest of them: Melrien, Angondren and Belegur.

They were all silent. They all knew nothing good would come from saying anything around orcs.

The sun set towards Maeglin’s left.

 It took his mind a moment to process the implications.

 The west was on his left. He was heading north.

Heading to Angband.

 

***

 

Maeglin hung by his wrists, toes barely skimming the ground. His arms burned, in counterpoint to his legs which were still painful after the march. His joints felt like they were pulling out of their sockets, the tendons giving away from the stretch-- and he couldn’t be confident that that wasn’t what was happening.

He hoped his hands would be alright. He needed those things. (They burned as well, but with a different quality – like he was being poked with a hot needle, as a tingling numbness ran down his fingers.)

Orcs crowded around him—far more than was necessary for the simple task of hanging someone from a ceiling. They weren’t even holding the rope, just standing around where it had been tied to a hook on the floor.

He breathed fast and hard. He hyperventilated, his breath almost whistling. He wasn’t going to scream, he wasn’t going to, he had standards, he wasn’t going to scream—

Maeglin’s toes slipped out from under him, and skidded the floor. His whole weight was hung from his left arm – just for a moment, just a moment as he got his foot back under himself – and he screamed. Cut off and short, but a scream never the less.

The orcs laughed. “Aww, is the wittle pwinceling feewing sore?”

More concerning than the fact his left shoulder echoed his scream, was _how did they know he was a prince? Who told them_? Things did not, historically, go well for princes in Angband.

…that was a problem for later. That had to be a problem for later. He couldn’t deal with it now. He couldn’t even try to deal with that while hanging from the ceiling.

He could deal with his dignity now. ‘Preserving his dignity’ probably fitted in the same category as ‘saving his strength.’ And not having the orcs think of him as the ‘screaming one’ probably fitted even better. “You know the old joke, ‘how many orcs does it take to hang a prisoner? Ten, apparently. I honestly thought it would be less.”

“We’re not just here to watch ya,” one of them said, offended. That orc grabbed a bucket, and splashed it over Maeglin.

It was water. He counted his blessings that it was just water—but it was bloody _cold_. It left him gasping and shivering almost immediately, the cold-pain mixing with the joint-pain to make something four times worse.

“If we do that every time, do ya think he’s gonna shut up?”

Should he bait the orcs? No. He has enough of an idea to know what will happen if he did. Even in the relative darkness, he could see the other buckets.

Is he going to bait the orcs? Yes. Definitely. “Oh, you’re going to have to try much harder to shut me up.”

One of the other orcs hissed sotto vocce, “We don’t want him to shut up!”

He was interrupted by the bang of a door, and light streaming through it. Maeglin shut his eyes, tried to turn away from the burning light—but his movement was rather limited.

“Well, I suppose that might be an interesting exercise, but we do have business at hand,” the person at the door said, in soft, cultured Quenya, like someone from over the sea. The door shut behind him, and Maeglin could see.

Maeglin didn’t need to know what Sauron looked like to know this was Sauron. It was a fair form, bright and shining beautiful, like a marble statue lit from within— but with slitted pupils, eyes like a snakes, and teeth that were too white and too pointy.

He made a rolling gesture, and the orcs unhooked the rope from the floor.

Maeglin dropped, his knees buckling as he fell towards the floor. He tried to put his arms down to a more sensible position—

One of the orcs held the rope, grinning with yellowed teeth.

Just enough slack in the rope to stand, feet on the floor—but not enough to not be hung by his arms. _Lovely_. (His hands grew number and number, and the burn got worse, the prickle faster—)

Sauron walked up to Maeglin, touched his cheek—and inspected his eyes? He stared at Maeglin, eyes glowing orange like lambent flame.

Maeglin tried to move away, but Sauron’s hand stuck to him, like a magnet to iron. He jerked back again, and the hand stuck even stronger.

 It was – offputting. Unpleasant. Not as unpleasant as the forced march, the beating, the hanging, the water—but still unpleasant.

Sauron’s ember-bright eyes burned into him, leaving streaky after images as he tried to look away.  “You know that this will stop if you talk, yes? If you tell us where your city is? Not only that, you will be rewarded handsomely. We do believe in incentives, around here.”

Maeglin laughed in his face. “What would I do with gold, if I have nowhere to live? I would not be welcomed elsewhere if I told you.” (And okay, maybe he should have stayed silent, but with Sauron that close, with his whole body burning or burning-cold, it was rather difficult to remember too.)

Sauron removed his hand, and paced around Maeglin. No, stalked. Maeglin had to spin in place to follow him around the room, his feet aching with every footfall. “Who says it has to be gold? We do know you, Maeglin Lómion, son of Aredhel and Eöl. We know that you would not give up Gondolin for mere _gold_. We can give many things. We could give you your heart’s desire.” Sauron paused and cocked his head. “Stewardship? Maybe, maybe. Love? Idril’s love?”

Maeglin tried to keep his face neutral, blank – _tried_.

 Sauron grinned, showing off an extra set of canines and a carnassial apparatus. “Oh, that seems a likely prospect, doesn’t it.”

“No.” Maeglin hissed in a lungful of air. His tongue stuck the to the top of his mouth, muffling his words. “I feel like you have greatly mistaken me.”

Sauron’s smile –softened was not quite the word. It became the indulgent smile of a parent catching child in a particularly stupid lie, the smile of _‘Really? You thought I would fall for that?’_ “Well, I’ll give you some time to think it over.”

Sauron made a gesture, and the orcs followed him out as they left.

They kept Maeglin tied to the ceiling, kept him stuck like that, kept him dripping freezing water.

He took the opportunity, used the privacy, to scream.

 

***

 

They took him down after awhile –all the way down, all the way so he could finally put his arms _down_ \--

He collapsed to the floor with a bone jarring thud.

The orcs left him alone. In the dark. Presumably to distress him. It was almost funny. _Oh no Mr Orc, please anything but being alone in the dark!_ He bit into the knots in the ropes to loosen them, and took off the first layer of his skin as he ripped his hands out. If they wanted him to be tied, they could just tie him up again.

Everything was pain. Everything was exhaustion. At one point the pain had different qualities, the cold-pain and the stretch-pain and the exertion-pain, but it had all blended into one terrible mass.

(The numbness in his hands stayed, like he was wearing gloves, like those gloves bristled with sewing needles--)

The floor was cold. Hard. Dug into his already painful elbows.

He couldn’t muster the energy to move. To roll over. To do anything. He lay there, shivering.

The door opened again, after another while.

He didn’t even have the energy to squint against the light.

An elven slave walked in, carrying something his eyes couldn’t quite makemake out in the glare. She was thin, her shoulder bones standing out like jagged cliffs. Her ankles and knees bent in all the wrong ways, so she could only shuffle instead of walking.

She knelt down in front of him. Her expression was blank-- but then again he was probably not emoting right either, so he couldn’t judge. She held her cargo out in front of her.

It was a glass of wine.

He didn’t want to take it. He wanted _nothing_ from Angband, not the least nor the greatest thing. _Nothing._

…but he had to conserve his strength. He needed to escape, and to escape he needs his strength. Needed to drink. And she’d just be back anyway until he took it, he guessed. No point making her job harder. It wasn’t her fault she was here, handing him wine.

He took it in shaky hands, and thank the Valar his fingers still worked (—just enough, but he could hold things, he’d count holding things as a victory—). He meant to savour it, but he was so thirsty, his mouth so dry and his throat so cottony, that he drank it in one gulp.

It was bitter. Bitterer than most wines.

She took the cup out of his hands and left.

He lay there for a minute, savouring the aftertaste as a distraction from the pain, and as distractions from pain there were much worse ones—

The room started rock. Ever so gently. Like a boat on a calm lake.

And then it rocked less gently.

If he wasn’t already on the ground, he’d have fallen to it.

The room started to spin, and he grew concerned—and then he stopped. There was some concept he couldn’t reach, some reason dizziness was worrying, but he couldn’t grasp it. It was somewhere in his mind, but he couldn’t find it, access it.

He frowned. This was important, this thing he was missing was important—but with the room pitching and rolling, it was all he could do to keep the wine down.

His brain wasn’t co-operating. And he knew that was worrying but he still couldn’t grasp the why.

The bitter taste seemed important too-- but maybe that was just the bile in his mouth.

When the orcs opened the door and lifted him up, he still hadn’t worked it out.

 

***

 

(It’s only later that Maeglin can piece what happened into a narrative. A broken narrative, missing detail and sense and out of order, and of course, _missing the most important information_. But a narrative nonetheless.

He can’t be sure of it. He can never be sure he put it together right.

At the time, it was a blur of sensation, of seeing parts of the events but not the whole.

And it still is.)

Orcs dragged him into a room.

 His knees sung with pain, bleeding from where his trousers had been torn and his skin scraped away.

The orcs’ footsteps echoed around the room. The sound of them dropping him to his knees echoed around the room.

His hiss of pain didn’t.

How is he on his knees? Is he being held up? How did he get here? He didn’t know. Every muscle screamed and ached.  His face and knees were hot, and the rest of him cold. He shivered. The effort of shivering exhausted him.

He looked around the room-- trying to figure out where he was, trying to figure out why he couldn’t figure out.

A presence dominated the room, overpowering all else.. His eyes skittered over it. It was—too big. Too painful to see. Bigger than Sauron. Brighter. It glowed from two points – and later that would have significance – but now it just made it hard to look at. Its darkness made it hard to look at too, a matte black that light hid from, all light except those two points.

It’s spoke.

…Maeglin was fairly sure it spoke. It spoke a tangle of syllables he couldn’t pull apart, couldn’t turn into meaning.

(He didn’t know if he ever understood.

He didn’t know if he replied.

He could never know if he replied.)

Sounds, empty of meaning, echoed around the room like a rung gong. Maeglin’s ears ached from the volume.

A figure approached him. Smaller than the other. Not just physically. Maeglin could look at it and—he couldn’t _comprehend_ it, but it didn’t make his eyes hurt like the presence did.

It was definitely bipedal. Had arms and a head and all those necessary things. Had a bright light too. Less bright than the others, smaller than the others, just a small orange-yellow point in the darkness of the room.

The figure came closer, as did its light.

Heat radiated off the light, in warm waves, heating the air around it.

The light pressed into his arm.

White hot, searing, burning, something sizzled –

His brain couldn’t make narrative. His brain could make pain.

Burning burning burning ever burning—

The point of light, the point of heat, moved off his arm.

The arm still burned, still sizzled, but for a brief moment cool air washed over it.

Maeglin breathed out, hard and fast.

The point of heat moved. Back on to his arm.

***

 

Maeglin slowly came to. Came to understanding, to be able to interpret the world as a whole and not as meaningless details. Came to memory, to narrative.

He came to at the Gates of Angband. The wind whipped matted hair into his face, threatened to pick him up and dash him into the cliffs either side of him. He leaned on roughly hewn rock, not quite able to fully hold himself up— and he had no idea how he got here.

There were orcs milling behind and in front of him, and not attacking him, so he guessed he was meant to be here? He was not confident of that.

He hoped this wasn’t the prelude to getting nailed to somewhere unpleasant. That’d be traditional for a prince.

Sauron appeared behind him.

Maeglin nearly jumped a foot in the air.  

“I want to thank you, for giving us what we wanted.” He smiled with far too many teeth. “You made it far too hard on yourself, but you did do it eventually, which is what counts, really.”

 _I—I gave Gondolin away_? He didn’t remember doing that, had barely any memory of the last however long—but he didn’t remember _not_ doing it.

 It wasn’t implausible that he could have broken then.

 Or even just plain old decided that it was worth it.

\--that should have generated an emotional reaction. It didn’t.

“You will get your reward when the time comes, do not worry.”  

Some part of him wanted to scream. That he didn’t mean to do it. That he didn’t want Idril _that_ way – that he wanted her to love him properly, not as pretty pet in a pretty little cage, that he wanted her as _Idril_.

But there was no point. He did it. He will be rewarded.

“My orcs will return you to where they found you. We don’t want to cause any undue suspicion. Or for you to get lost on the way.”

One of the orcs shoved him, and he stumbled forward. “Thank you kindly for your _hospitality_ ,” Maeglin said, with as much venom as he could muster.

Sauron’s grin widened. “You’re welcome.”

 

***

 

The orcs half-carried him as he walked.

He walked faster than he should have, straining his legs as wides as they could go, moving them as fast as he could go. His body hadn’t recovered, but he pushed himself regardless. He was going to come apart at the seams when he got to Gondolin.

He didn’t care. His ability to care hadn’t come back yet. So.

…No, that wasn’t true. He did care about some things.

Like the orcs carrying him. The orcs he wanted to be rid of.

He pushed himself. Pushed himself so that they’d reach the ‘mine’ faster and the orcs would put him down and leave.

His muscles had stopped screaming, and had switched to streams of invective. _‘Fuck you, stop walking, fuck you, lie down, stop—‘_

He hadn’t escaped. He’d been let out. He hadn’t escaped and he had an Eru-damned orc escort because he’d betrayed his home.

And there was nothing to be done. Because he’d already done it.

These orcs were just proof of the fact.

He wanted them to let go, to crawl back on his own—but he wouldn’t be able to get all the way back to Gondolin like that. He knew it. The orcs knew it.

They carried and pushed and manhandled him till they reached the mine.

The orcs left, as promised.

His body didn’t wait till he reached Gondolin to fall apart.

He took one step, another—and collapsed on to the ground. Dust puffed up in his wake, getting into his eyes.

Ants wandered passed his face as he caught his breath. He wondered when they would try to eat him.

A metre in front of him, the pile of garnets sat there. The orcs hadn’t bothered taken them, just him and his miners.

He could bring them back. Make it so this expedition wasn’t a complete failure.

… _No_.

An ant climbed onto his nose.

His throat stuck to itself, dry and tacky. Dehydration was one way to go, he thought. Wouldn’t require much effort.

He idly felt around his belt. His waterskin gurgled as he patted it. He wasn’t confident that it hadn’t been tampered with, but still, it was there.

Dehydration would take effort. _Drat._

The sun rose higher as he lay there. Getting his breath back—getting any co-operation between his mind and his body—didn’t seem to be happening. The noon day sun cooked him. His ear twitched in the heat. The brand on his arm started to ache in sympathy with the rest of his skin.

He should really get back to Gondolin. Avert suspicion. Be in his own bed. Put this behind him.

He dragged himself up with a grunt of effort. His legs were shaky, and painful – he took a tentative step. He could still walk. Barely. And if he couldn’t walk, he could crawl. He could do this.

He made his way in the direction of Gondolin. He knew a way in and out that couldn’t be seen easily for the walls – it’s how he and his miners had got out in the first place. Well, he knew a way that worked at night. No guarantees in the day.

He didn’t care. Let them catch him. Let them find out. Let them know that he left the city, let them know exactly what he did. Who cares! Not him.

He dragged himself hand over hand, out of the rocks of the mountains, and into the Vale. Stuck to the bottom the hills. No point making it easy for the guards.

He didn’t spot Glorfindel until he nearly landed on top of him.


	2. Gondolin I

It never paid to be overconfident, but Glorfindel felt confident in the walls of Gondolin. For their strength, in part, but mostly in their field of vision. Whatever came at them, they would see it first.

One of his guards spied someone coming into the Vale. A lone elf. They could see them as soon as they got out of the mountains. Glorfindel appreciated that.

Glorfindel and a coterie of guards cantered across the hills, to intercept them before they reached Gondolin.

Each hill they crested, he got a better look at them.

They were an Angband escapee, most likely. Not just because most people who came into Gondolin nowadays were escapees. They had that wretched look, the slow and exhausted walk, that turned into a crawl along rougher ground. They clung to the bottom of the hills, like they were afraid of being seen.

Another thing common among the refugees: even in the Vale they did not feel safe enough to not hide.

This one had come the wrong direction to be coming through the Way of Escape—he reminded himself to ask them about that, once they’d caught up and reassured the poor soul. An extra entrance would need to be closed up.

The escapee looked up at them, startled, as they rode down the hill towards them

Glorfindel pulled his mount back to a more sedate trot. It’s only when he pulled his horse to a halt a metre in front of them that he _recognised_ the elf. 

It was _Maeglin_.

A wretched, exhausted looking Maeglin mysteriously in the Vale for no good reason—not an escapee.

Maeglin lifted himself up and stood up straighter, like he was trying to cover how battered and bone-weary he was. It only half worked.  His pupils were pinpricks, his eyes lined with heavy bags. And his expression—it was like he hadn’t remembered he was meant to make one.

“Are you quite alright?”

His head jerked up to look at Glorfindel. “Yes. Certainly. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what is your business in the Vale?”

“I’m—I’m on a walk. The city’s so stifling this time of year, so I went to get some fresher air.” He cocked his head and made what was probably meant to be a bemused smile. It didn’t fully work, his eyes too wild and his lips peeled too far back. “You can’t be thinking I was trying to leave? You know yourself, I’d be spotted miles off.”

 _That was—not a question I asked_ , Glorfindel thought. It was an overly specific denial. On its own, maybe not suspicious-- but something was deeply wrong. Something deeply suspicious.

 But suspicion on its own was just that—suspicion and nothing else. Nothing he could act. “Apologies for interrupting your walk, then.”

“I understand, you have to check.”

Glorfindel frowned.  Another strange answer.

Maeglin started walking again.

Glorfindel spotted something. A burn mark, on Maeglin’s lower arm. Like he’d dropped forge tool on himself.

 He signalled his coterie to ride back, and they followed. He’d never known Maeglin to burn himself. Where did he get it from?

He watched Maeglin’s slow progress to the city over his shoulder as they pulled ahead.

***

 

The next day, there was a council meeting for the lords of Gondolin.

 A rather dull one, Glorfindel thought. Better it be dull than exciting, of course. A city whose largest problem was acquiring enough hands to shear the sheep was a city in a good position.

And he wouldn’t shirk his civic duty, unlike a _certain someone_.

Maeglin was absent. A rather out-of-character act to Glorfindel’s thinking, though finding him dazed in the middle of a field was even more so.

Maeglin was not the sort to no show.  Sure, he was wrecked yesterday, and an absence could be excused in the light of that – if he’d _said_ something.

And come to think of it, while there had been no council meetings to fail to attend to the last few days, he hadn’t seen Maeglin for a few days, before his field adventure. Glorfindel grimaced. This painted a concerning picture. Or a suspicious one, depending on the light.

After a rambling debate about how to best rearrange and incentivise the farm workers, Maeglin arrived rather late. He stood straight, walked with long strides, and wore a haughty expression that said ‘I’m too important to bother being on time for this.’

Glorfindel raised an eyebrow, then dropped it before anyone could notice. Maeglin being arrogant? Not out of character. Maeglin insulting people with his face? Not out of character either. But insulting people by being late? Maeglin insulted people by showing up early, by making them look late, by making it look like he was the one truly conscientious person in the room and they were the lazy layabout.

“Now, on to second matter, of the tax on metal goods—“ Turgon said.

Maeglin said nothing. At all. Throughout the meeting. Not even about the taxes on processed metals.

That was—that was not Maeglin. He may be quiet outside of councils, yes, but to resist an opportunity to jump on a soapbox? Something was badly wrong. Suspiciously wrong. Finding him the Vale, the lateness, the quietness, _the burn mark_ —on their own they were somewhat concerning, and could maybe even be explained away— but together, they formed a pattern. A pattern of what, Glorfindel was not sure. But a _concerning_ one, at the least.

The meeting adjourned shortly afterwards, and Maeglin was the first to leave.

Glorfindel walked over to where Idril and Tuor sat. “Have you seen Maeglin in the past few days?”

Idril narrowed her eyes. “No. Why do you ask?”

“He is—being concerning.”

“He’s a concerning fellow,” Tuor said.

“This is more than the background level of concerning. I found him yesterday, in the Vale of Tumladen. He was exhausted, injured – and his excuse was strange. Said he was out to get fresh air, and denied trying to leave -- before I had asked such a thing.”

Idril frowned and sucked her teeth.

“Perhaps he was, ah, ‘doing a runner?’ Like his mother before him,” Tuor said.

“Then why return?”

Tuor shrugged.

“What sort of injury?” Idril asked.

“A burn.” Glorfindel gestured to his lower arm.

“I’d say it was from forge work—but he hasn’t been in the forges these past few days. I would have heard of it. That is—“

“Concerning?” Glorfindel said. “That is why I wanted to discuss this with you. To see if it is actually suspicious, to see whether I am being reasonable or merely jumping at shadows. And to ask for your help, in keeping an eye on the situation, if you were willing to offer such help.”

“Certainly,” said Tuor.

Idril pursed her lips and gave a curt nod.

 

***

 

Maeglin slumped against a wall, around one of the blind corners in the Palace. _How did I miss a council meeting?_

Okay, so maybe he had some excuse. A hard week, one might say. But he’d never forgotten a meeting.

He’d only realised when one of his servants asked why he wasn’t at it, for crying out loud! He’d only been told about it yesterday. Yesterday! How did he forget it?

His heart thumped in his chest, and he willed it to slow. This was a once off. Yes. He could still remember things. _He could still remember things_.

Glorfindel had looked at him oddly. Did he know? Had he figured it out? …No, no. If he’d figured it out, Maeglin would be dead. ~~(Which would have been awfully convenient.)~~ He hadn’t found out. He was fine.

Maeglin walked back to his quarters. He could work this out.

 

_***_

 

Working this out was not going well.

Maeglin paced in his dark quarters, rushing from corner to corner, picking up pillows and setting them down, opening cupboards, closing cupboards, sitting on chairs, and hopping back up immediately. If he stood still, the restless energy of his soul would vibrate so hard against his body that it would create enough friction to spontaneously combust.

…No, that wasn’t how souls, or bodies, or any of it worked. But it _felt_ like it. And frantically running around seemed a reasonable enough reaction.

He betrayed Gondolin. Whether it was because of torture, or if in the right state of mind Idril is that tempting, or that was just how Morgoth worked—Angband knew where Gondolin is now.

Angband knew.

He fell backwards on to his bed, getting tangled in the hanging curtains. _He’d_ betrayed _Gondolin._ He lay there, paralysed by the revelation.

And then his soul started buzzing again, and he resumed his pacing. It’d be no good if the bed started smouldering.

What could he do? What could he do to solve the problem he had created?

Nothing. Angband knew where Gondolin was, its secrecy was its greatest defence—there was no way to fix this. What was done was done.

What could he do to mitigate the problem?

He could tell people. Warn Gondolin of its impending doom. Maybe with preparation, they could oppose the might of Angband—no, they couldn’t. He’d been at the Nirnaeth. He’d seen what Angband could do. Angband could not be opposed.

But to fight or not was Gondolin’s choice. They should be informed. The best choices were informed choices.

And warning Gondolin would be a moral act, would at least _somewhat_ counteract his betrayal. Bring him further up the moral high ground, or at the very least out of the moral bedrock.

He ripped the pillows and bedding off his bed, and rotated the arrangement 180 degrees. If he warned people—well, he’d be executed, almost certainly. And not without good cause. He’d left the city, he’d betrayed it—both were executable offences on their own.

A little piece of his mind piped up: _Would that be so bad? Not having to deal with Gondolin’s reaction? Not worry about Sauron reneging on the deal?_

At the thought of Sauron, his arm – his burn – throbbed. The skin sizzled, and he could smell it burning. _Did Sauron have other spies? Would Sauron find out he had warned Gondolin? Would he do something about it?_ His shoulders ached, an echo of the suspension. Rope cut into his wrists. _Was he going to be hung from a cliff face for a century, as punishment for being a twice traitor?_ _Should he just fall on his sword now?_

He took a deep breath. No. He was going to warn people. He had to. It was the only way to make things better.

The brand still burned.

***

 

Maeglin opened the door to Turgon’s office.

Turgon looked up from a ledger. “Ah, Maeglin. Was there something you wished to talk about?” He said in a paternal manner.

 _Stand up straight. Square your shoulders_. (Ow.) _Walk confidently. Talk confidently._ “I am concerned about a security issue.”

Turgon put the ledger down on the desk. “Why did you not bring it up at the council? That certainly sounds concerning.”

“It is—a sensitive matter.”

Turgon grimaced, concerned. “I will treat it with all the sensitivity it requires.”

Maeglin stepped forward, and rolled up his sleeve. The burn had started to scab over and blister, but was still an angry red.

Turgon looked at it, and then looked up at Maeglin. “Who did this to you?”

Maeglin sucked in a breath. He didn’t get it. _He didn’t get it, couldn’t join the dots, make the inferences. He needed it spelled out_. Maeglin wanted to spit ‘who do you think?’ in his face. –But that wouldn’t be productive. If Turgon needed to be handheld through it, well, he was just going to have to hold Turgon’s hand then. “I cannot be sure. I was in a bit much pain to notice minor details like _that_.” The venom bled through that one. “One of Morgoth’s people, certainly.”

Turgon’s eyes widened, and he made a face.

Maeglin ignored it. “A mining party and I were beset by orcs, and taken to Angband. I… I do not recall breaking, but Sauron seemed quite convinced I had. I fear the location of Gondolin has been compromised.”

That face was definitely shock and betrayal. Tiny pupils, tight mouth, blanched face.

Some part of Maeglin wanted him to ask if he should jump out the window now, simplify the whole execution business. –Turgon didn’t need more shock, though. He seemed to be having enough trouble with the amount he had. He didn’t need suggestions, however helpful they may be.

Still. It _would_ simplify things.

“We must take this matter to the council. Urgently. Línien!”

A messenger stepped into the door way. ”Yes?”

“Bring in the Lords for a council. Immediately. It’s an emergency.”

Línien made a curt bow, and left.

Maeglin turned to follow her.

Turgon stood up, and put a hand on Maeglin’s shoulder.

Maeglin felt a tight stab of fear, of being caught, of being trapped. His lungs burned in his chest, calling out ‘break the hold, get out, break it!’

But Turgon didn’t need to be more shocked, or to gain a broken wrist.

“I appreciate your candour –And I would appreciate your testimony at the council, also.”

Maeglin nodded. Giving his testimony would be an important part of warning people. No point leaving a job unfinished.

Turgon pulled him into a hug.

Maeglin’s heart made a valiant effort to escape his rib cage, to fly out of it and be free. He gingerly put his hands around Turgon. Get this over with, flee with a modicum of dignity, calm down before giving his testimony. _Breathe breathe breathe keep the hold keep the hold_ \-- No need to alarm Turgon more. He could do this. Even if some animal part of his brain was screaming that he was trapped and Turgon was going to take him to his lair and do terrible things.

Turgon’s hug lingered – Maeglin couldn’t tell if the note of finality was intentional, or as imaginary as Turgon’s evil lair. It felt like Turgon was making it last, savouring it, like it would be his final contact with his nephew.

Maeglin just wanted this to be over with. The claustrophobic hug. The emergency council. His imminent death.

It would make this simpler.

 

***

 

Turgon sat Maeglin next to him at the council. A protective gesture. Keeping him close, keeping them as a united front.

Maeglin appreciated it, to an extent. Having the King on his side was no small matter. –But it highlighted that there was something different about this council, in a way that was easy to see, and that Maeglin was the source of the difference. Of course, the fact that there were two councils on the one day highlighted the difference, and as soon as the matter before the council was announced it would be obvious that Maeglin was the source—but still. On some level he would have preferred his usual chair.

Mostly he wanted this over with, to be free of his obligations. (Once he was free of them—)

The Lords filed in twos and threes, whispering conversations to each other.

“We were here only a few hours ago—“

“What emergency?”

“Do you know what I happened?”

“I heard that—“

Maeglin studiously ignored the chatter. Their guesses were all spectacularly wrong, anyway. And if he replied now—well, that was just going to drag this out. No point in doing that.  

When Salgant finally trailed in, Turgon called the meeting to order. He spoke loud, projected his voice. He spoke like a _King._ He stood up, and planted both palms on the table. “My people, I have grave news: The location of Gondolin may have been compromised.”

There was a dead silence, as the rest of the lords turned it over in their minds. Gondolin was betrayed?

Ecthelion spoke the council’s thoughts – though with less politesse and more shock than his usual tone. “ _How?_ ”

Turgon nodded at Maeglin.

He’d have rather Turgon had kept the floor, had explained it himself, he knew the important details—but Maeglin was the one who had caused this problem. And Turgon had brought him here for his testimony, instead of summarily executing him. Fair was fair. He would do his duty. “A citizen of ours was captured by orcs and… interrogated _._ ” He paused, to let the rest of them work out what that euphemism meant.

Rog definitely did. He clenched his jaw, and gripped the table.

“We do not know how much information, if any, Angband gained, so we must be careful,” Maeglin said.

Glorfindel stared straight at Maeglin, looking steely. Like he had _worked it out_. Which wasn’t surprising, considering the incident in the Vale. “Who was captured?”

Maeglin squared his shoulders. “It was I.”

Glorfindel raised an eyebrow. “And you do not know what you revealed?”

“As implausible as that sounds, yes, I do not know.”

Rog interjected. “That is not impossible.”

They were other lords who looked like they had objections, but they went quiet when Rog spoke. His house had the most escapees from Angband, he was one himself, and as such his expertise was deferred to.

It was nice having more than one person on his side—but Maeglin wondered how long that would last, how long it would take for Rog to realise that no, he was actually a traitor, not like the escapees of his house. It felt—unfair, dishonest, to take uninformed support. He was _doing_ this to properly inform people.

Salgant glanced around at the other lords, waiting for someone to speak up—and when no one did, he spoke for himself. “Why is he still here?” He gestured angrily at Maeglin. “If he admits to giving information to the enemy, admits to being captured” – _read as: left the city_ – “why has he not been thrown off Caragdur?” – _read as: like his father before him._

Maeglin couldn’t really dispute that.

Turgon stood up, and walked around the room, using his height to his full effect. He usually treated the council as his peers, as equals, but now? He strode like the King he was. Addressed them like the King he was.

Maeglin expected him to say that yes, he was going to be executed, but later, once they had got all of the useful testimony out of him.

He didn’t. “I do not treat the lives of my subjects lightly. And I do not use my right to destroy those lives lightly, either. Eöl’s death was to prevent the discovery of Gondolin, and to punish a _murder_. Seeing as Gondolin has already been found, a further death would prevent nothing. As such, I see that it would be best if Maeglin was able to make amends.”

Salgant muttered under his breath. “Nepotism. And it’ll bloody end up as murder--”

Rog glared at him, and the turned to address Turgon. “It would be wrong to punish someone for being captured and tortured.”

Salgant kept muttering. “He never _said_ that—“

Rog’s glare turned icier, and Salgant took that as his cue to shut up.

“This is a major development,” Turgon said, still speaking like a King, “and I do not expect you to have answers right away. Go to your houses, spread the news, discuss strategy, and we will return later to make decisions.” He nodded, as a cue that the meeting was adjourned.

Salgant glared at Maeglin as he left. It wasn’t particularly intimidating, Salgant was bad at glaring, but it did impart information. _I want you_ dead.

_(Me too.)_

Turgon sat down, and let out a shaky breath. His face softened, as he turned and put a hand on Maeglin’s shoulder.

Maeglin prided himself on the fact he only flinched a little.

“Thank you for your help.”

Maeglin stood up. “As you said, I should make amends.”

“I still appreciate what you did here.”

“I’m sure you do.” He turned on his heel and left.

 

***

 

Rog caught up with him in a corridor.

 Maeglin tried to outpace him, but Rog was determined and long-limbed. “There are some other escapees in my house, who would be willing to talk with you, to give you sympathy or advice.”

Maeglin waved him off. “They would have better uses of their time. I am not even an escapee.”

Rog made a bitter smile. “You are aware you are not the first person to say that, yes?”

“ _I_ have better uses of my time.” He broke into a half-jog, and left Rog behind. He _did_ have better uses of his time.

He had just one more person to warn specifically, and then he would be free from obligation.

(He could do what he wanted, then.)

 

***

Technically, the person he went to inform had already been informed, she had been at the council—but Idril deserved a specific warning. She deserved a warning more than the whole of Gondolin did. If Angband attacked Gondolin with no warning, Gondolin had a chance to survive. If Angband targeted Idril individually, she had none.

He’d paced and drafted and re-drafted what he was going to say over and over again, more than he had when he admitted his betrayal to Turgon. That confession didn’t matter as much.  This had to be diplomatic, informative—it had to be perfect.

A servant opened the door to Idril’s family sitting room.

Idril sat on a chair, watching Tuor and Earendil play with blocks on the floor. Earendil’s tower was already starting to list to the left, as he piled more and more blocks on top of each other. But it was still somewhat impressive, considering how young he was, Maeglin thought.

 She smiled—until she looked up and saw him. Her smile fell away. “Was there something you wanted?” she said, pointedly polite.

“There is something I need to inform you of.” It took physical effort not to say ‘my lady.’

It took physical effort not to fall on the floor and rant about how he was a worthless, miserable worm.

She gave Tuor a look.

Tuor stood up. “Come on, let’s go outside.”

Earendil grabbed a handful of blocks, and glared at Maeglin. Even as young as he was, he could tell something was up, that he was being sent out for a reason.

Maeglin wished that he couldn’t.

Idril arched an eyebrow, a gesture for him to say his piece and leave.

“Angband may be interested in you in particular, and I felt it was only right to warn you of this fact.”

She folded her hands in her lap, and cocked her head politely. “And why might they be interested in me?”

If she wanted him to dig his own grave, he would. It would be a kind of amends. He looked at the corner, staring at the dust bunnies. “Sauron mentioned you multiple times, and seemed to find you to be of a particular interest.”

“Because of you.” It wasn’t a question, not really. It didn’t need to be. She could make sensible inferences. Why else would Sauron mention her, if not for his prompting?

“They may have other sources.” Maeglin swallowed thickly. “I do not wish you any harm. I did not ask for anything to do with you. I am only telling you this so that you can be informed and guard yourself.”

“Consider me _well guarded_.”

Maeglin bowed, and fled the room.

 

***

 

Maeglin headed to the forges. If he didn’t do something productive, something useful, some work of his hands that could not be perverted— _something would happen_.

And he needed to relax. By hitting things with hammers. And burning them.

Hitting something with a hammer could be very smoothing.

He had a private forge, but he headed to one of the public ones instead. As much as being solitary would be more relaxing, more enjoyable, he had to care about appearances. Despite how many people would hate sharing a forge with him after what he had done, ‘local traitor disappears into his forge, appears to be making something’ was not a _good look_. Much better they saw what he was making, saw that it wasn’t concerning. (Even if that required being seen making something.)

He walked through the door –the one left open to help with the ventilation, to stop the heat within cooking its occupants. Smiths drafted designs at the tables, hammered metal on anvils, plunged metal into oil with hisses of steam. Few turned to watch him enter. News must not have reached them yet.

Maeglin ran his fingers through his hair, and they came back greasy. It was—he hesitated to say ‘good’ – it was to his liking that news hadn’t spread. He felt vaguely guilty about that, he shouldn’t be pleased that they were not informed, but couldn’t muster much strength to the emotion. He had rather worn his guilt out.

Celebrimbor was the only one to turn to see him. He paused in pulling tools out of the drawers, and waved at him.

Maeglin liked Celebrimbor. He was another person with a _questionable_ father, who didn’t fit neatly into Gondolin – and who’d much rather discussing black- or goldsmithing than either of those thing, given the choice. Maeglin would admit a kinship with him.

Maeglin walked up to the table next to Celebrimbor. “Hello.” It sounded vague and flat and hollow to his ears – but he only had just enough energy to do blacksmithing, not to be a sparkling conversationalist.

“It’s good to see you, it’s been awhile since you have been in here.”

_News definitely hasn’t spread._

“What are you working on?” Celebrimbor asked, after Maeglin didn’t respond.

Maeglin frowned. “I—don’t know.” He turned away, and started rifling through the drawers. “I’ll see what the metal wants to be.”

Celebrimbor was stilling smiling, but it seemed slightly brittle. “That will be a story to tell: ‘the first time Maeglin ad-libbed.’ And anthropomorphised the metal, as well.”

“There’s always a first for everything.” And goodness, his voice was getting duller by the second. Not that there was much he could do about it. The ringing of hammers pounded in his ears, threatened to drown out his thoughts. He pulled out a sheet of steel, and inspected it. “Maybe a knife.” Even if that would be suspicious. He didn’t care. Knives were enjoyable to make. He needed some enjoyment.

“I’m working on a bridle bit. The buyer has a colt they’re about to break in.” He held up a sheet of measurements, and cocked his head at it. “One with a rather strange mouth.”  

“Hmm. Interesting.” He pulled out a set of tongs—

His brand burned, burned like hot metal pressed against it. Flesh cooked, sizzling like bacon, the smell wafting into his nose. The tongs in his hand—the branding iron—burned his hand. His breath came fast and hot, his heartbeat came faster and _burned_. Burned like the brand like the brand like the brand—

The tongs clattered to the floor.

\--He didn’t run. With gritted teeth and iron will, _he didn’t run._

 He picked the tongs up from the floor, the sheet metal from the table, and replaced them in the drawer. The drawers closed with a band – everyone would hear that, everyone must have heard the tongs, everyone would judge him and they’d know and– he turned on his heels and left.

He didn’t run.

He left at a brisk walk.

 

***

 

Celebrimbor turned as he heard the tong fall to the floor.

It was a quiet sound, in the din of the forge. One wouldn’t notice it—unless one was right next to it, and already concerned about its wielder acting out of character.

Maeglin picked it up, holding it in the tips of his fingers like it was still hot, holding it out like it could turn and bite him. His eyes were wide, too much white showing, and he breathed hard. Like—like he was in pain?

Celebrimbor frowned.

Maeglin had a mark on his arms. As he held out his arms, Celebrimbor saw it.

A burn mark. A deep one.

Deliberate, too.

_(Has he been burning himself?)_

Maeglin hurriedly packed up his drawers, shutting them without care.

Celebrimbor stepped forward to help – maybe even to ask what was going on – when Maeglin turned and left, as fast as he entered. Without making anything.

Celebrimbor chewed his lip. That was— _concerning_.

 

***

 

The sun set, turning the clouds pink, as Maeglin walked towards his house.

He had informed everyone who needed to be informed. He had made amends, as much amends as he could reasonably attempt. Even if Turgon did not think so—Turgon had his biases. His desire to protect his family, to coddle it, despite its best interests.

He’d done what he could.

He couldn’t even make anything. Couldn’t be productive, make amends with the works of his hands—

(He couldn’t even _distract_ himself properly.)

He had nothing to do.

He had no obligations.

Something sparked in his brain.

He turned towards the House of Idril and Tuor.

He

had

one

more way

to make amends.

 

***

 

Celebrimbor left the bit unfinished. Partially because of Maeglin, as he tried to work out what happened, what could be wrong. 

Partially because he needed food.

He headed to the markets. There was a baker he knew, Mastalle, who sold the day old bread in the night markets, before selling it as pig food in the morning. It was still good bread, despite being less than fresh. Hearty. Good thinking food.

The atmosphere hung heavy over the markets. People still talked – but it wasn’t the normal chatter, of friends catching up and excitable bartering. It was quieter. More subdued. Subtly afraid. ( ~~Like Maeglin~~.)

Mastalle handed him a loaf wrapped in paper, with none of her usual patter or pleasantries.

“What happened?”

She frowned. “Haven’t you heard?”

Celebrimbor shook his head.

“Someone told Morgoth where we are. Gondolin’s been betrayed.”

“By _who_?”

The noodle seller the next stall over interrupted. “By the Lord of the House of the Mole.”

“By Maeglin,” said a third person.

Celebrimbor didn’t drop his bread. It would have been dramatically appropriate, he thought distantly. That didn’t make it happen. It stayed in his hand, heavier than it had been.

Maeglin betrayed Gondolin. It fit with the pattern of today, the out of character behaviour – but not with the rest of the pattern. Maeglin was a fellow veteran of the Nirnaeth, there was no love lost between him and the Great Enemy, there was no reason for him to sell out Gondolin--

\--it fit with the pattern of the burn mark. Of the _brand_.

It would not have been a willing betrayal.

And if it had been a willing betrayal – even the worst people deserved sympathy, did they not? And it couldn’t have been. It didn’t square with what he knew of Maeglin.

He handed the money to Mastalle, and walked away.

He needed to talk to Maeglin. To give support, or to find out what happened, to just say something—

…What was he going to _say?_

 

***

Tuor opened the door.

A messenger handed him a note. “From Lord Maeglin, sir.”

He took it. As he unfolded it, the messenger saluted and left.

The note was in Maeglin’s hand—though a stiff, scrawled version of it-- and requested a meeting, along with some directions to the meeting place.

Tuor huffed out a breath. This would just be more of the conversation he had with Idril. Certainly. At least Maeglin had the guts to tell him himself that his wife was in danger. That wasn’t nothing.

But it wasn’t a lot, either.

He grabbed his coat, and headed out. He had better uses of his time that to listen to the snivelling excuses of a traitor—but not that much. Maybe Maeglin would say something useful. Something he could report to Turgon.

The mountain air turned chill quickly. Frost grew along the grassed pavements, the plants crunching under foot.

He was nearly there when he realised where the directions were leading him. Caragdur.

He pulled his coat tighter. This would have to be _good_.

Maeglin sat on the ground – not on the edge of the cliffs, but at the edge of the tiled plaza near the edge. _Only a small difference_ , Tuor thought.

Maeglin stood up, slowly and stiffly, like an old man with shattered joints.

This could have been a trap. An attempt to get Tuor alone, throw him off the cliffs, and leave Idril undefended. It wouldn’t work. Tuor was strong, healthy and hale.

Maeglin shook with exhaustion when he stood up.

“What do you want?” Tuor said.

Maeglin half hid behind his hair, and stood with his back to the cliffs. “Did Idril tell you about our conversation?”

Tuor nodded.

“I didn’t tell her everything, you know. She didn’t need to know, and I didn’t want to hurt her. …you know I’m only doing this not to hurt _her_ , right? I didn’t admit what happened for the good of _Gondolin_. I don’t care about the city. I only care about her. I did it for her.”

Tuor crossed his arms and clenched his teeth. “And why are you telling me this? Because you think I can take it? Because you don’t care? Because you want to upset me?” 

Maeglin didn’t pause in his tirade, just kept rambling and shuffling backwards. “You know Sauron offered her to me, her hand in marriage. I imagine it must have come up in your conversation with her. It must be why I br—betrayed Gondolin. I don’t remember doing it, but if I did, it must have been the offer. You know me. Would I betray Gondolin for no reason?”

Tuor took a step forward, keeping the gap between them small. If Maeglin wanted to try shoving him off a cliff, he was _welcome to try_. 

…Maeglin wasn’t trying that.

Tuor’s hands dropped to his sides.

Maeglin’s rambling became less and less coherent, circling around the same topics over and over, the backwards shuffling getting faster and faster.

Maeglin couldn’t shove him off the cliff, Tuor thought. And Maeglin _knew_ that. The antagonising and the shuffling wouldn’t make sense if he was trying that. He wasn’t trying to throw Tuor off the cliff.

He was trying to throw himself off.

Via Tuor. Because of course he could achieve things without hurting people, without twisting the knife, apparently.

“I hate you right now,” Tuor raised his voice, and Maeglin’s ranting came crashing to a halt. “You betrayed us, and you might not even _care_ that you did.” He took a step closer to Maeglin.

Maeglin stopped shuffling.

“And seeing as I hate you, I’m not going to give you what you want.” He grabbed Maeglin.

Maeglin flinched, shoulders around his ears, for a second. Then he went limp, like his bones had been replaced with rag stuffing.

He picked Maeglin up under one arm, like an over-large toddler. “And it looks like you want to be thrown off this cliff.” He walked backwards, away from the cliff.

Maeglin struggled, tried to wiggle backwards out of Tuor’s arms – but he was still weak, and Tuor had experience holding on to wiggly people trying to get themselves into trouble.

Maeglin went limp again, and became ten times heavier in that instant.

Tuor put Maeglin down, up against a wall a fair distance from the cliff-edge.

He slumped against the wall. It wasn’t the calculated limpness of before. It was like he’d just lost all energy to keep his back straight, keep his head up.

_At least he isn’t going to wander over to the edge._

“If you truly think you deserve to die – and I might even agree with you – petition Turgon. Don’t take matters into your own hands, or put it into others.”

He stalked off back home, leaving Maeglin sliding over onto the tile floor.

 

***

Tuor shrugged off his coat in the entry way, and shrugged into a dressing gown in the bedroom.

Idril was already in bed, reading.

“I just hand an—“ he paused to think of the right word “— _incident_ with Maeglin.”

Idril looked up, and raised an eyebrow.

“I think he tried to get me to throw him off the cliffs.” He sat down on the bed. “I didn’t of course. He’s fine.”

“Oh. That again.”

Tuor fell backwards on to the bed, and stared up at Idril. “Again _?_ ”

“He may not have tried to get people to throw him off cliffs before—but when he was younger, he had a habit of hanging around Caragdur. Near the edge. Most people explained it away as grief, misplaced grief at that.”

“You didn’t.”

She shook her head. “It was less grief, and more—picking at an opening wound. Keeping it open. Though maybe that and grief are one for him. I often coaxed him away from there. Many elves, when they die of grief, their feä does not spontaneously leave their hroä.”

“Hmmf.”

“I—thank you for doing that.”

Tuor raised an eyebrow, and rolled over onto his stomach.

 “For not throwing him off. Stopping him from throwing himself off. I do not _like_ him – but he is family. I… wouldn’t want any undue harm to come to him.”

“And if he gets executed?”

She dipped her head. “I wouldn’t say that was necessarily undue, in that case.”

“He plans to petition Turgon for it.”

“Then he will have a rather hard sell. …Some would say that Turgon protects him, because he is family, and that he should not. Some would say that one should not execute people for crimes that are not their fault, and being tortured is not a fault.”

Tuor lifted the covers and rolled into them.

He mulled it over, as he went to sleep. If Maeglin had done similar things before—it circled around his thought as he drifted off. What did it mean, what did it imply?

What did it say about Maeglin?

 

 


	3. Gondolin II

Tuor stepped on a note as he stepped out his door.

He bent over and picked it up. It was _another_ one from Maeglin. Longer though, not just a request and hastily scribbled instructions. The handwriting was still stiff, but it was carefully

_“To my kinsman Tuor,”_

Tuor frowned, and double checked the header. Were they technically kin, by marriage? Yes. Had Maeglin ever acknowledged that, let alone in writing? …he might have, at some point. It would have been sarcastically though. _This might still be sarcastic_ , he reminded himself.

“ _I would like to apologise, if I caused you any distress last night. I wish I could write my reasons, but to acknowledge them would sound far too much like using them as excuses. I did not intend to_ displease _you, or cause you upset._

_\--Lord Maeglin.”_

 It made no mention of petitioning Turgon ( _which if he was going to pull a stunt like that, he should really go through on_ ). No explanation, which would have been nice, in Tuor’s opinion. It wasn’t even an apology, merely apology shaped.

Tuor set the letter on a side table with a sigh. He’d take apology shaped, for the moment. Can’t really blame for someone not reacting spectacularly to torture. Especially one that already had such… tendencies. …and in such case one probably shouldn’t petition Turgon. Let someone else do it.

Maybe.

 

***

 

Maeglin sat in one of the viewing galleries above the public forge.

The forge was quiet, the smiths having left for the night. (It felt –strange, not counting himself as a smith. But he couldn’t be one. Not anymore.) Embers cooled in the forges, their glow slowly ebbing, making the room darker and darker.

He’d come here at night before, when he couldn’t sleep – to make things. To distract himself in the production of physical goods, until he was exhausted and relaxed enough that he could face trying to sleep again. Now? Well, watching embers was strictly better than nothing. Incredibly boring, though maybe that counted as a _kind_ of relaxing.

His soul itched to go down in to the forges, relight the fires, make something – but the memory of last time stayed fresh. Going down would be the opposite of helpful.

He just wished it wasn’t.

Footsteps came up the stairs behind him. Celebrimbor stuck his head through door, and walked up to Maeglin. “I thought I should—check on you. And say something. …I’ve heard some—things—about you.”

Maeglin arched an eyebrow. “Yes, and?”

“If I were a different person, I’d be coming to ask you about it, find out what you had to say for yourself. But I’m not here to do that, you’ve probably had far too much of that already. –I’m worried about you.”

“I was that unsubtle?” He meant to say it with some sarcasm, maybe a dash of venom – but it just came out as resigned.

Celebrimbor scuffed his shoe against the decking “I don’t think anyone else noticed. But I was close enough to see.  In both senses of the word, I’d guess.”

There was a pause. An uncomfortable one. Celebrimbor had shared comfortable silences with Maeglin – maybe it was the lack of something to do with their hands that made this pause worse. Maybe it was the context. “Are you… alright enough? I understand if you do not wish to speak of it.”

“Do you know why I’m not down there?” He nodded at the forges below.

Celebrimbor sucked his teeth against his lip. “Same reason you fled yesterday, I’d guess.”

Maeglin nodded. It was… pleasant, having someone who could connect the dots. Who didn’t have to be walked through every dedcuction, inch by inch. “I can’t pick up tools. …not literally, but—“ He closed and opened his hands, like there was something in his hands that he couldn’t quite grasp.

“From the brand?”

Maeglin sighed, more exhalation than sound. “Guessed it in one.” He probably meant to sound sarcastic—but he didn’t quite.

Celebrimbor shrugged. “You wouldn’t be the first to react to an object like that. --And I dropped tongs on myself once. Left a similar mark. I put two and two together.”

Maeglin turned to face him, for the first time in the conversation. He raised an eyebrow, bemused. “How did you drop tongs on _yourself_?”

“I was young! And surprisingly bad at holding things.”

Maeglin’s good cheer melted away as quickly as it arrived. He turned back to the forges, back to staring at the embers. “At least you didn’t drop them on the floor and flee.”

“…I actually did both of those things.”

The silence came back, heavier and more oppressive than before. Celebrimbor sucked on his tongue, to stop himself from breaking the silence. He wanted to talk, to prod, to check and double check whether Maeglin was _sure_ he was alright, to keep the conversation flowing and shut out the quiet—but that would be for his comfort. Not Maeglin’s. It would be selfish of him.

If Maeglin wanted quiet, wanted to brood over dying fires—well, that was his choice, wasn’t it?

Maeglin spoke again, after awhile. He stared at his hands, and spoke softly, with more gravel than volume. “You know how I dealt with nightmares, dealt with insomnia, before? I came here, to the forge. I made things. And look what I have been reduced to!” He clenched his fists.  “I cannot even hold tools! I am a traitor, and useless one at that!”

Replies rose in Celebrimbor’s throat, more than he could fully count.  _‘You aren’t useless.’ ‘People aren’t made worthy by being useful.’ ‘Torture doesn’t make you a traitor.’ ‘I am so, so sorry.’_ And there was an equally great flurry of suggestions and queries. _Could they work around the tool thing? Was it only some tools? What if he--?_

He didn’t say any of them. This was _for_ Maeglin. If he was going to help, he was going to do it on Maeglin’s terms. Even if the help Maeglin wanted was ‘none,’ even if he desperately wished there was something, anything, he could do to make this one infinitesimal bit better, he wouldn’t push. “Do you want sympathy, or solutions?”

Maeglin rested his cheek on his fist, deflated. “I want the impossible.” He glanced up at Celebrimbor. “Absolution.”

Celebrimbor drew in a deep breath, and knelt down beside Maeglin. “I can give you that. Not on anyone else’s behalf, and—I do not consider breaking under torture to be a fault. But if you do, then I forgive you for it.

The force of those words hit Maeglin like an ox. Nails dug into his palms, against his will. Celebrimbor—gave him what he asked for. Even if he didn’t deserve it, Celebrimbor gave it willingly. On his terms.  (He couldn’t fault Tuor for not giving him what he wanted. But still. It was the understanding that counted.)

His eyes grew hot, and he quickly covered it with a hand, pressing hard against his eyes. He wasn’t making shameful displays two nights in a row. No. “I—uh—thank you.”

Celebrimbor looked at the floor. “I wish I could give more, and if you ask for more, I will do what I can.”

“That is—that is much appreciated.” His voice turned crackly, and he knew he was inching closer to an outburst. He needed to retreat—in a non-concerning manner. Celebrimbor must have been concerned enough, already. He stood up, and brushed imaginary dust off his thighs. “I should probably return to my quarters. Attempt sleep. Something like that.”

“Sleep well.”

 

***

 

 

Horns blared across the walls.

Glorfindel and his patrol rode hard across the Vale of Tumladen.

There was movement coming from the mountains. Heading into the Vale. 

They crested a hill, coming out of the dawn- shadow of the valley.

The movement wasn’t orcs. They were close enough now, to see. These were elves. Escapees, from the way they walked – though that guess had been wrong last time.

One of them spotted the riders. Pointed to them. The group – six in all--  turned and walked towards the riders.

Glorfindel slowed his horse to a trot, his squad following. He drew his sword. Maybe they were refugees, people who had dragged themselves out of the boltholes of Morgoth and into the light – or maybe they were forward scouts. Caution was a virtue

They were metalworkers, with the crest of the House of the Mole emblazoned on them. At their head was Tathrien, one of Maeglin’s trusted craftspeople – who had been missing, for some time.

Glorfindel sighed. This had to become more complicated, didn’t it?

Both parties stopped, about a metre apart from each other.

The miners looked about as wretched as Maeglin did. Not in the same way –their injuries looked less fresh, they seemed more vigorous and less exhausted. But they were ungroomed, dirty, with twigs in their hair and dirt stains on their trouser knees. Like they had been in the wild.

“What is your business?” Glorfindel called out.

Tathrien stepped forward, arms crossed, looking ready to speak.

One of her people – Cenedion, Glorfindel guessed – interrupted her. “Have you seen Maeglin? He was separated, and we haven’t—“

Glorfindel cut him off with a sharp gesture. Cenedion would get his answers, in due course – once Gondolin had got their answers from him.

“We have something to report, Lord,” Tathrien said. “Gondolin _may_ have been found.” 

It took a profound effort of will not to drive his face into his hands and scream. _Of course. More of them. That was exactly what Gondolin needed._ Glorfindel didn’t do that, of course. He had an appearance to maintain.

And testimony to deliver.

 

***

Maeglin paced around his quarters. It was less frantic than last time, with no hurried furniture rearrangement or dramatic flopping. But he still made repeated circuits of the room.

Being able to make things was important. _Very_ important. Not just as a way to feel useful, purposeful, or to increase his self-esteem. He needed it. Needed it to stay on an even keel. Making something, using his and hands and mind, and having something at the end to show for it – if he couldn’t do that long term, things would go _badly_.

He looked down at his brand. It had healed somewhat, with silvery scar tissue coming in around the edges.

Smithing was his usual choice of craft, -- but it was a _bad idea_ , to say the least. Not really a viable option. He worried at his lip. He could make other things, he did have other skills, but what—

Something flashed in his mind. He strode over to his window, and threw open the curtains.

The mountains around Gondolin stood proud and tall and mostly black.

_Yes. **Yes.** _

He tried to contain his laughter, or at least keep it from sounding completely maniacal.

A map. He could make a map. A geological map, of the area around Gondolin. Of where the ore veins were. Where the basalt dikes were, climbing into the eyries of the eagles. The crumpled sediments. The plutons. The massive uplifted chunk of basalt on top of those plutons, that went from basalt to gabbro to serpentine to that red and green stone.

It wasn’t like he could reveal Gondolin’s location any more than he had.

And it would be useful. As a reference for miners – or as reminder for those that came after Gondolin’s fall. It would work for either.

And even with his short term memory being less than stellar – he wasn’t quite sure how he would have managed at all without servants to remind him of things – his stone memory was as good as it ever was. Plus, the map was visual. He would be able to see what point he was up to in it’s making with his eyes, and not his memory.

He strode over to his desk, pulled a large sheet of paper out of the draw, and started to sketch.

The laughter turned maniacal.

 

***

 

A second emergency meeting, in almost as many days, was called.

People cluttered the tables, the six miners squashed on once side, with the lords piling in around the other edges. The miners insisted on being interviewed together (‘To support each other,’ Tathrien said, ‘And so we can all hang together, if we must.’)

Glorfindel would have rather had the overwhelming advantage of numbers, but it was not his choice.

However, the council table was not as crowded as it could have been. Maeglin had not been informed of the meeting –deliberately. They didn’t want him to intimidate the miners, or collude with them any more than they already had, or— whatever he was up to. (He had to be up to something, Glorfindel thought.)

Tathrien sat in the middle of the miners, hands clasped in front of her, and doing her best to look the part of their representative. Belegur and Melrien were on her left, looking carefully blank. Cenedion was on her immediate right, failing utterly at looking blank. Agondren and Hehel did a very good impression of birds who had just smacked into a window.

Turgon opened the questioning. “How were you captured?”

 “We were ambushed by orcs. They bound us, and took us to Angband,” Tathrien said.

“And _how_ did the orcs ambush you?”

“We were mining outside the city, my lord. They must have stumbled on to us.”

Ecthelion breathed in sharply.

They knew that Maeglin had to have been outside the city. How else could the orcs have stumbled on him, in a city they didn’t know the location of? But they didn’t _know_ , not for certain.

Salgant jumped out of his chair, nearly barrelling into Galdor beside him. He thrust a finger at the miners “They admit it!”

Turgon gave him a sharp look, and Salgant sank back into his chair sheepishly. Turgon turned back to face the miners, with a carefully neutral smile. “Did anyone _ask_ you to leave the city?”

“Maeglin. Maeglin asked us.” Tathrien paused, for the space of the breath. “But so did the rest of the city. So did _you_. Where did you think our wealth of iron and gold came from? Did you truly believe that the mines within our mountains were not exhausted? The veins left there barely counted as ore, and took more work to process than the metal was worth. Did you truly believe that no one was leaving for the material your city hungers for? I hear you are wise, _O King_ , and thus I doubt you were entirely unaware _._ ”

Turgon arched an eyebrow, and pursed his lips, with a look of ‘ _are you sure you wish to continue?_ ’ “We will deal with these matters, once the greater matter is resolved.”

Tathrien, undeterred, kept staring at him.

“How did you leave Angband?” Rog asked, to break the detente.

“We were released.”

“One by one,” Agondren butted in.

“We managed to find each other,” Tathrien looked down at her hands. Her knuckles stood out, pale against the rest of her skin as she clenched her hands. “Apart from Maeglin. We could not find him.”

Cenedion’s eyes widened. “…he was never released, was he? Or is he dead? He’s not at this table.”

“It would be better if he’s dead, rather than still there,” Hehel said.

“Maeglin is—“Turgon paused. ‘Unharmed’ would not be an accurate statement. “Alive. We thought it best if we interviewed you separately from him.”

“To avoid… interference,” Glorfindel said. “And suchlike.”

Tathrien fixed him with a short-lived glare, before turning back to Turgon. “We could talk about the reason you called us here, we do not need to delay it. We _may_ have given Gondolin’s location to Angband. But I doubt it, sir.”

“Go on.” Turgon cocked his head.

“When we were released, Gorthaur thanked us, for giving away its position.” She supressed a shudder. “… But he told all of us that. _All. Of. Us_. And I have reason to doubt the veracity of his claims. Leaving aside that Gorthaur is known to lie—we were all drugged before being tortured, before being released. Ask the others on their own, and they will tell the same story. Our memories were interfered with.” Tathrien picked at the edge of her nails. “… I of cannot, of course, be sure of this. But I am certain I did not speak while I was being tortured. I would not speak, even when drugged. The drugging could have been used to fool us, to think we might have spoken.”

“When we met up, we found our stories were so similar,” Agondren said. “Too similar. Tathrien convinced us it may have been a trick. …I had considered not returning to the city. Gondolin has been found, and I would have died if I returned. But if it is a trick—it is worthwhile to inform you. To let you weigh the decision of how likely it is we have been found.”

“I would say that we should not execute those who are drugged, or coerced,” Rog said. “Or in this case, both.”

Salgant arched an eyebrow. “You believe _them_? With their _incredibly_ c _onvenient_ stories?”

Rog crossed his arms. “There are better lies than this. More convincing ones. Ones that don’t leave the possibility of being wrong, or of not knowing your own situation. And look at their arms.” He lowered his voice, adding an aside to the miners. “I hate to put you one display like this.”

Cenedion, Agondren and Melrien placed their arms on the table hesitantly. Tathrien held hers up – not proudly, but _defiantly_. Like she didn’t care if it was meant to be shameful, like she refused to feel  any shame.

They all had a brand on their lower arms. Not the same shape as Maeglin’s, but undeniably made with the same tool. They had the same edges, the same depth, the same amount of healing—

Glorfindel took a deep breath, to quell the deep well of his frustration with this situation. _Why didn’t Maeglin tell them that? Why didn’t he? In what realm was a fact like that not_ relevant _—_ “It is a similar tale as what Maeglin has told us, but with more detail.”

Salgant turned to Glorfindel. “…ignoring the drugging. Maeglin didn’t mention that.”

“He likely didn’t want to muddy the issue, if he felt it necessary to warn people of danger,” Cenedion said.

Tathrien gave a wan smile and shrug. “He keeps his own council.”

“Considering the precedent I set with Maeglin,” Turgon said, “and that any damage had already been done, and the confounding factors of the drugging and coercion, I say that there is no reason to punish you.” He looked around at his lords. “This meeting is adjourned.”

They filed out of the room, the Lords first and the miners as a tight group at the end.

Once he was out of the room, Glorfindel split off from his fellow council members.

He had to find Maeglin. _~~(And yell at him. A lot~~_ _ ~~.)~~_ ~~~~

***

 

Maeglin sat at a desk in one of the public working-spaces—with a quill in his mouth?

Glorfindel frowned. Yes, he was drawing with his mouth, for some unfathomable reason. It was but a minor oddity compared to his glaring omission, but it was still strange.

It wasn’t what he was here for though. Glorfindel tucked his hair sharply behind his ear.

Maeglin turned and looked up at him. “Was there a council meeting I missed?” he said, around the quill in his teeth.

His frown deepened. “ _How_ did you know?”

Maeglin spat the quill onto the table, and raised an eyebrow. “…why else would you come talk to me? I imagine this is not a social call, and anyway, we are both busy people. So, there must have been something I forgot about.”

“Well, yes. You seem to have forgotten a minor detail in your story—” Maeglin was the undisputed champion of sarcasm, but Glorfindel intended to be strong competition “—that of the drugging.”

Maeglin picked the pen up awkwardly, and dropped it twice before he succeeded. “It wasn’t relevant.”  

“Wasn’t _relevant?_ ”

“The fact that I betrayed Gondolin was the relevant fact, not the circumstances. And maybe I thought that getting into unhelpful, unpleasant, and irrelevant circumstances was not the best use of anyone’s time?”

Glorfindel swept his hands out in front of him. “It’s _highly_ relevant! How can you be sure you betrayed Gondolin?”

 “I can’t. But equally, I can’t be perfectly sure that this table exists, but it would be foolish to expect this quill to drop through it to the floor.”

The quill clattered on the table, bounced twice, and fell to the floor.

“That isn’t the same kind of being sure, and you know that,” Glorfindel said. _Why was Maeglin so—_  

Tuor galumphed up the stairs, two at a time. “Can you blame him for being careful? For not wanting to garner undue sympathy? We at least know the facts _now_.”

Glorfindel tried to say something in reply – but everything he could think of was either angry, inarticulate or both. _Why did Maeglin – why did he — And if they’d know earlier – just, why – gahh!_ He threw his hands into the air, and stalked off.

Maeglin leaned over in his chair, and felt around the floor for the quill—unsuccessfully. “That was kind of you. Rather unnecessary, but kind of you,”

“Someone has to defend you from yourself.”

Maeglin arched an eyebrow. “I was unaware that I had become blonde, and two people.”

Tuor shrugged, and walked away. “You know what I meant.”

Maeglin’s numb fingers grasped the quill, and he hauled it and himself back up to the desk. He started sketching the map again, drawing the outlines of the valley’s sides.

He didn’t start this fight, he thought, it wasn’t in anyway his fault, there was no reason to tell people about the drugging, it would only hurt his case, he had _reasons_ , he could defend himself thank you very much

—But considering the events of two nights ago, well, Tuor could claim to be defending him from himself.  And he probably deserved it. Though it would be sporting if Tuor didn’t take advantage of that.

 

***

 

Maeglin worked on the map in his quarters, with Celebrimbor working companionably alongside him.

(When Celebrimbor first heard of the project, he offered to help by transferring it to printing plate, so that it could be copied. ‘For future reference,’ he said, as if the mountains staying accessible was guaranteed. Or, more fairly, that he hoped they would.)

Copper plates and engraving tools sat next to him, with a half copied stratigraphic section taking up most of the top one.

Even though Maeglin usually preferred to work alone, finding other people intrusive and far, _far_ too slow – he appreciated Celebrimbor around. It wasn’t _just_ trust. Not that trust was some small thing, but— It was having someone to copy the work into a more easily reproducible form. It was having a spare set of working hands and working memory. It was having someone to discuss this with, bounce ideas off, come to new synthesises with.

That, in combination with trust, was a wonderful thing.

Maeglin put the quill down, and unsuccessfully shook the stiffness and pins-and-needles out of his fingers— “Hmm.”

Celebrimbor leaned over, to copy down the rest of the column—and to see what it was the puzzled Maeglin,.

“It’s the sequence.” Maeglin ran his finger from top to bottom, slightly smudging the ink. “It’s consistent –oddly so, across reasonably distant mountains. The bottom rocks seem… different, from those above. Like they had been altered by whatever process made these mountains, and the higher rocks are less altered.”

“Because of the different rock types?”

“And the minerals. All the garnets –the ones not loose on the ground – they’re from these rocks.” He circled his finger around the bottom strata. “Consistently. And I haven’t found them in any of the younger, volcanic outcrops, like Caragdur.” (Which was incredibly boring. He’d already drawn it’s stratigraphy, as it was the simplest. It was gabbro all the way down, with a few basalt dikes to make it seem like less of a bastion of dullness. Somethings were much more interesting symbolically than geologically, more’s the pity.) “And there is that red and green stone. I haven’t seen that green mineral anywhere else except at the bottom of the western mountains. It’s a rather odd one, too.”

“I wonder if it had to do with how Aulë sang those mountains into shape. Or Ulmo cut into them. One of the two.”

 “I’ll admit I’m mostly interested in the garnets, and why they are only there. But I can make a note of that.” He scribbled in the margins ‘ _Note to Future Observers: if possible, ask Aule what was he thinking here._ ’

Celebrimbor smiled. “You know that if I copy that, I am going to rephrase it more politely?”

“And that’s why you’re so useful to me,” he said, affectionately.

Celebrimbor huffed out a laugh. “I am the _most_ useful.” 

 

***

 

 

The council collectively admitted that it needed two tables to seat all of the council and the miners. They still packed tight around the tables, but there was at least some gravitas to the situation, now they weren’t half sitting on each other’s chairs.

Maeglin sat in his normal chair, near Salgant with Rog on his other side. He appreciated being that, that sense of normalcy. It made him feel less singled out. (And he hadn’t been relegated to the slightly smaller table with the rest of the miners.)

Turgon stood up, his hands on the table. “I have called this council today to more fully discuss a grave matter: Whether Gondolin has been truly found, and how we should act, as the case may be. I beseech upon the Powers, to properly guide us in these matters.”

A low murmur of assent went around the room.

Maeglin frowned. Turgon was devout – but not in a way that made its way into opening remarks usually. (And, somewhat blasphemously, he doubted that any of the Powers would attempt to do anything to help them, much less guide them. Ulmo might be an exception—but even his help had a time limit.)

The council stayed silent afterwards.

Maeglin sighed. If someone had to speak first – “I believe Gondolin has been found, my lord,” he said, his tone far more deferent than usual. (It would have to be, for people to _listen_.) “While I know my people would not lie –“ He gestured to the miners, “—I must say that we are not the most reliable witnesses. Our drugging could equally cloud a confession from our memory, as equally as the lack of one.”

Tathrien opened her mouth to speak, and was hushed with a hand on the shoulder from Cenedion.

“It would only take one person to have… given away the location, for us to be found,” Maeglin said. “And Morgoth is mighty, including in the arts of the mind. We may not have spoken, but that does not guarantee he has not found Gondolin. And _if_ Morgoth did not find it from us—this may have been a ruse, a misdirection. Most likely, a misdirection about _how_ he actually found Gondolin.”

“ _If_ it was a misdirection,” Glorfindel said, “it could be to draw us out into the open, out of our defensible position. One does not need to know the location of Gondolin to attempt that.”

Maeglin smiled tightly. “I recall you were rather convinced we were found?”

“Our information changed.”

The room looked at Maeglin—unimpressed. Disbelieving. He ground his teeth.  

“If we sured up our defences, and stay put, we will be well served if we are found or not,” Glorfindel said.

“Aye,” said Turgon.

“It would be the best option, I would say. If we are uncertain, take the less risky strategy. It would be safest,” Ecthelion said.

Maeglin shut up. If every time he spoke, they would immediately assume he was wrong, that something else happened – then he wasn’t going to talk, was he? He could let someone else point out that, hang on, Angband _was powerful_. How many people did they have at the Nirnaeth, how many more were there than in all of Gondolin’s armies—and how did that turn out for Gondolin? He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. They were enough veterans of that battle at this table, he thought. One of them would work it out.

“I am—less sure,” Tuor said. “Gondolin will fall, it has been fated. It may be better to choose the manner and the time of its fall, if it must fall. It would be better to assume the worst—“

“--And leave,” Idril added.

“Fate can be less set in stone than some would like,” Turgon said, though he didn’t sound like he could even convince himself. “And besides, even if the Gondolin is doomed, the time of its doom is not known. We may still have centuries, millennia even—”

A messenger burst through the door. She panted, her face red from exertion. “I have news, my lords.”

“You may speak,” Turgon said.

“Orc scouts have been found. The eagles spotted them, and destroyed them—but they were heading towards the Way of Escape, towards the Vale. With great accuracy, the eagles say.”

The council fell silent.

It was confirmed. There was no denial, at least none that would make sense, no way to assume the worst hadn’t happened—

Gondolin had been found.

Turgon addressed the council, but looked to the floor. “We must then decide, seeing as we have been found, how to respond.”

Maeglin stayed quiet. If it took an orc patrol landing on their head for them to believe him—

“In the light of being found, I still doubt that Morgoth gained his information through torture. Rarely does a victim say anything sensical, or helpful, or true, or any such combination. It is a ruse, likely to sow discord by making a prominent member of the council untrustworthy, and to cover their actual source. Why else release people? A ‘confession’ upon their return is not an unlikely outcome,” Rog said.  

“And this is relevant _how_?” Salgant said.

“It means Morgoth will have another source, and we need to be careful with how our information moves, considering the – leak.”

Maeglin appreciated his avoidance of the word ‘mole.’ And his trust, to an extent, however misplaced it was. (He couldn’t be sure he hadn’t betrayed Gondolin. And even considering his wisdom, Rog hadn’t _been there_.)

“That seems rather unlikely,” Salgant said. “Not just the, uh, _leak_ , but why the misdirection? And how can you be so sure torture never works? It’s not like anyone would admit to confessing.”

Rog raised an eyebrow “You have been present at these councils? Where people admitted to a near enough thing for your purposes?”

“Keeping in mind any internal risks,” Turgon said, “We must still decide on a course of action.”

“I still favour the defensive option,” Glorfindel said.

“Aye,” said Ecthelion.

“It’s obviously the best one,” Salgant said.

“I also favour it,” said Turgon. “Though I favour it only as a council member, not as a king.”

“I am not so certain we can defend ourselves from the entire might of Angband,” said Idril. “Our greatest defence was our secrecy, and it has been lost.”

“We could ask our allies for assistance,” Turgon suggested.

Maeglin kept quiet, his talking hindered rather than helped – but no. No. He had to say something. If everyone sensible, other than Idril, was going to cede the floor, than he just was going to have to speak, wasn’t he? “Which allies? The Havens, or the Feanorians? If I had to choose, I would say the Havens – but they are newly founded, and have few people. And they have recently come out a terrible war – I somehow doubt they would give direct aid to a centre of Noldor power. They might give us aid if we escape, maybe even let us settle among them – but send us men, materiel?” He shook his head. “They would not even give that to us, even if they had it.

“And the Feanorians – are Feanorians. They are low on manpower as well, are in an unknown location, and are blood crazed maniacs. They might send help—but they could equally name a silmaril as their price for it.”

He paused. He had said his piece—no, no he hadn’t, he realised that with a jolt. This was a grave matter, but he had an unparalleled opportunity. To make a call back, to make a beautiful point – and on some level he shouldn’t. But he had had little enjoyment this past or week or so, who could deny him a little snark for the purpose of politcs? “I am not sure it would be wise, in this case, to rely on the swords of the Noldor.”

A wave of twitches washed around the room – through Turgon, especially – but the point landed. It landed _beautifully_.

 “I would—consider escape, if they were some way to not be exposed,” Glorfindel said.

“And I would agree,” Turgon said, resigned.

“I have something that may be useful,” Maeglin said. “I didn’t prepare it, for this council, or for – _other_ events. But it may be helpful.”

He retrieved the geological map – the most map-like part of it, not including the stratigraphic columns or the close up sections – and laid it out on the table, with a crackle of unfurling paper. “Considering that Gondolin had already been found, I didn’t see the harm in making a map of the rocks around it. And I thought it may have come in useful in the future.”

Glorfindel frowned—but stood up and examined it anyway.

Maeglin scanned it, looking for something helpful. “Here,” he said, pointing to section towards the south, with a wonky brick pattern drawn on it. “A deposit of marble. It’s soft, easily mineable, and if you tunnelled through it, it would lead into a protected valley. Very steep sided, almost a canyon. Morgoth’s forces would be forced circle right round the mountains to reach us, assuming they are even able to find where we went. And then we are out onto the banks of the Sirion – under the protection of Ulmo, and towards the Havens.”

“And you hadn’t prepared this ahead of time?” Tuor said.

“No. It really was largely for mining.”

Tathrien shrugged. “He knows the area.”

“We would have to be especially careful of leaks with that plan,” Rog said. “But it is a good one.”

“A tunnel would be good protection.” Idril said. “Especially if it was designed correctly.

Maeglin frowned. People were… agreeing with him? He wasn’t sure if he needed to make maps or ironic call backs more often, but he definitely needed to do one of those.

“It would be a good evacuation route—and evacuation may be the best plan, considering,” Glorfindel said.

“We’re just going to ignore the flaws? The ones we mentioned earlier? The Sirion is incredibly open,” Salgant said.

There was a flurry of discussion, slowly circling round to consensus on the evacuation.

Including Turgon. “If Gondolin is fated to fall—“ he said it like it pained him, “let it be the safest fall that there has ever been seen in this Age.”

The council and the miners slowly filed out.

Idril walked up to Maeglin. “Your map—showed foresight. Thank you.”

“I’m glad it was helpful. I honestly expected it to be useful for mining.”

She made a face. “You were planning on doing more mining?”

“Not necessarily me personally – but someone had to do it.”

 

***

 

Maeglin trotted to catch up with Rog. “I have a—question. Or a request.”

“Yes?”

“I was wondering if you would be willing to lead the House of the Mole?”

Rog frowned. “Have been having difficulties?”

 _Well, yes_. There were people who could have covered for a broken memory, who had mastered delegation to the point where it ran perfectly without relying on their mind—but at that point, someone else was more or less leading, weren’t they? If he could write himself reams of notes—pages of reminders and reminders to look at the reminders and all the facts he could forget in between someone saying them and it coming up again, then maybe he could manage.

But then his broken _hands_ were the issue.

Not that he would say as much to Rog, of course. Rog didn’t need to know.

“Even if it becomes generally believed that I did not break or betray Gondolin, it would not be-- _universally_ believed. It would not be good for morale to be led by a traitor, and this city needs all the morale she can get.”

“You are aware elves are not crockery? I have to check.”

Maeglin smiled. “I have double checked, and I don’t seem to be leaving a trail of sharp ceramic pieces. But still: not everyone else is aware.” Which he didn’t believe, of course he was broken, and of course that implies that he _broke_ —but again, not a thing Rog needed to know.

“My house is already large, and the House of the Mole is not inconsiderable either. It would become unwieldy.”

Maeglin’s smile turned sharp edged – turned political. “I would, of course, be willing to assist with the transition.”

Rog smiled back. “And I would be glad to have the assistance.”

 _And I would be glad to have an extra brain and a more manageable pile of notes to take,_ he thought _._

***

Miners filed out of the North gate.

Glorfindel sat on his horse, Honeycomb.

The tunnel progressed swiftly, and had bored a deep hole into the mountain.

Glorfindel itched to get out of this period of waiting, of sitting and hoping Angband didn’t fall on their heads.

The disruption wasn’t helping the tension. All the outlying farmers had been brought of the city walls, in case one of them had been sneaking away and leaking. The gates had to be guarded, for much the same reason. No one went out, without being triple checked.

The miners were a mish-mash from various houses, for the same reason. A group from one house could have a conspiracy, and one of them could sneak away during the tunnelling. Harder to have a conspiracy if everyone was split up and jumbled—and they were less ties of friendship to prevent a report.

Honeycomb pawed at the ground and shook her head, equally tense.

Miners filed out of the gate. Glorfindel watched them along with other guards. It was good for morale, to see your Lord down in the trenches with you, as tense and bored as you as they watched people walk out of a gate.

Gondolin needed all the morale she could get.

A miner walked past, fidgeting with the chin strap of their helmet.  The helmet was a different style to the rest of the miners’. A face covering style.

Glorfindel frowned. There was a bit of variation in equipment, what with the various Houses’ personnel, but a face covering helmet – “Excuse me, you there!”

The miner walked on, either pretending not to hear him, or pretending he was calling out someone else.

“No, you over there, step out of line.”

They paused – definitely stopping to think– and shuffled towards Glorfindel. “Is there a problem, Lord?” The voice was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.

“Just your helmet, friend. I need to check your face.”

Even with their face in shadow, Glorfindel could see their eyebrows raised, their eyes widen.  They lifted their hands to their helmet—

And sprinted off.

Glorfindel squeezed Honeycomb’s sides.  She sprang off into a canter, overtaking the miner in two long strides. She spun around, with a beautiful barrel turn, and blocked their path.

They ran into her shoulder. Their helmet made an alarmingly hollow sound as they fell backwards.

“You really did not help your case there, friend.” 

One of the guards hoisted them to their feet. Another unstrapped their helmet, and revealed the miners face.

It was Salgant.

 

***

They interrogated Salgant. _Ethically_. They interviewed him, asked questions, took notes and came back the next day to ask the same questions with different words, traced the differences between the answers to sift for the truth.

They interviewed members of his House – to little avail. They didn’t know.

They searched his quarters, the house-that-he-lived-in. Along with the general lordly detritus, of receipts and policy suggestions and day planners, they found a cache. It hid inside a harp’s soundbox, and contained a coded ledgers and even more heavily coded letters.

They sent it to Celebrimbor – he had decoded orcish messages before in Nargothrond. He set about the task with – not _relish_ , but a certain feverish determination.

At the mere mention of the ledgers, before they had even been decoded, Salgant confessed. He had been in communication with the orcs—with _Angband_. He told Angband where Gondolin was.

(The ledger was the dates and times of meetings. Celebrimbor wrote the translation guide, and gave it to someone else, so he could work on the letters.)

Sauron offered him prestige for Gondolin’s location, Salgant said. Offered him power in exchange for other information. Angband was building its armies, waiting for the perfect moment to strike, and all Salgant had to do was avoid being found out before then.

And then orcs came close, closer than ever before. Glorfindel said something, about being concerned that the orcs had nearly found them – and Salgant told Sauron about it. About how close he was to being caught, that Gondolin was onto him, they knew that _Angband knew_ , and begged Sauron for assistance—

Celebrimbor decoded the letter. He recognised the hand from Aman, the too perfect swirls and loops that couldn’t be forgotten—It was a letter of reassurance. “ _Do not fear, I am arranging for a scapegoat for you. It will not only draw suspicion away, but it will confer other advantages to you, I promise this. A rival will lose his power, Gondolin will be thrown into confusion—and no one will ever know it is you._

_I just need to know when Maeglin plans to leave the city—“_

Celebrimbor dropped the letter on the table, and strode over to the window. He had to get away from it. If he stayed close, he would have ripped it to shreds— It wouldn’t do to destroy evidence, no matter how furious he was with it.

He gripped the window sill tight, the tendons in his hands bulging and fit to burst. Ground his teeth till it hurt his jaw.

To know an elf would hand another elf over to Angband, to hand over an ally – well, he knew elves were capable of that. But in Gondolin, where they were _standards_ —To just let someone else be tortured, to cover for your crimes—

He reported his findings, as factually as he could, before engraving into the copying plate of the map with more aggression than necessary.

The council meet once more, to discuss how they could have missed this, how they could prevent this in their hypothetical future. They invited Maeglin.

He didn’t attend. Deliberately.  To know that it was Salgant, and not he who had betrayed Gondolin—he couldn’t _know_ it. Couldn’t be certain. It didn’t feel rational – but a whole room, convinced it couldn’t have been him, more certain about what had happened to him than he himself – he couldn’t deal with that. Couldn’t deal with everyone so sure while he wasn’t.

He couldn’t be sure, could never be sure, that he hadn’t betrayed Gondolin. He couldn’t _know_.

(He’d trusted Salgant, and he’d been betrayed—he could wrap his head around being the traitor, could wear the role like a cloak—but he didn’t know how to be the betrayed party.)

(If he couldn’t be sure of his own innocence, he couldn’t be sure of Salgant’s guilt.)

(What if _Salgant_ broke—)

 

_***_

 

Celebrimbor opened the door to Maeglin’s quarters, with a box under his arm.

Maeglin sat on his bed, losing a fight with his bootlaces.

“I made you some potentially offensive jewellery, as a gift.”

Maeglin leaned his chin on one hand, smiling. “Okay, colour me intrigued. How can jewellery be offensive?”

“Let me show it to you first.” Celebrimbor opened the box, and handed it to Maeglin.

In it sat a decorative bracer—definitely not functional, it had far too many holes. Swooping lattices of steel curled around it in an organic framework, leaving round and leaf-like negative space. Some of these lattices had eyelets at the ends, with fine chains connecting them to each other. Garnets sat inside the latticework –polished but not cut. They varied in size and shape, making an effect somewhere between veins of blood and veins of unsorted sediment.

Maeglin raised an eyebrow. “Did you think I would be offended by pretty things?”

“No, of course not, I’ve seen your work – though I am glad you find it aesthetically pleasing.” Celebrimbor’s ears turned red, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s more the, uh, function and symbolism that is risky.”

Maeglin made a ‘go on’ gesture.

“By changing how these pieces connect—“ he reached over and rearranged the chains, changing which pieces of lattice connected to each other “--You can change whether they’d hide or reveal your scars. –Honestly that’s just sensible design when making something for someone else, but it’s possible you’d be offended by the concept of hiding or revealing such things.”

Maeglin nodded his head. “I am not one of those people.”

Celebrimbor ran his fingers through his hair, dragging a section out of his braid. “Well, that’s good, or this entire exercise would have been pointless.The riskier part is definitely the garnets. You remember our discussion on them, and how they are found in altered rock?”

“Is this a ‘beauty through adversity’ thing?”

“No, because that would _definitely_ offend you.”

Maeglin huffed out a laugh. He was right, though. What had happened to him – hadn’t made him a better person, let alone more _aesthetically pleasing_. If Celebrimbor thought that this somehow bettered Maeglin, or was ‘all for the best, fate moves in strange ways’-- well, he would much stupider than he appeared to be.

But him being right? Being definitely as smart he appeared to be. …it was pleasing.

“An altered stone, a stone with garnets—it’s still stone,” Celebrimbor said. “Even if it is altered material—it is still fundamentally the same thing.” _You’re still Maeglin, even if you are a different Maeglin_. _But you are an equally worthy Maeglin._

“I, uh-- _thank you_.”

Celebrimbor smiled. “I’m glad you appreciate it.”

His eyes grew hot—and no, he was _not_ going to have a break down, he _liked_ Celebrimbor but he still wasn’t ready for him to see him cry, he needed a distraction—He held up the bracer, and cocked his head. “How would you suggest I wear this?”

(He was proud of how his voice didn’t waver, the practice had paid off—)

“The fact that it is your choice is _part of the design_. I have known some… fine people to bear their scars with pride, or as something intimidating. I’ve known equally fine people who hid them. It is you choice, not mine.”

Maeglin smirked. “And you, the craftsperson, have no aesthetic opinions at all on how it would be best worn?”

Celebrimbor scratched the nape of his neck. “Well… the theme of the piece is ‘altered material’—so it seems unfitting to use it to hide, uh, altered material.”

Maeglin put it on—and it did frame the burn scar rather nicely, as much as that was a strange way to think about it. Made it look almost like it was part of the design, and extra piece of organic texture to contrast with the smooth metal.

And the idea of jewellery having a theme was somewhat amusing, but somehow worked. He smiled, and stood up. The boot clattered to the floor. “Celebrimbor, I say this with the deepest affection—you are _incredibly_ Noldor.”

He looked down at the bracer, then up at Celebrimbor. Gift giving had significance, to Noldor and Sindar both, and Celebrimbor had to be aware of that –And if Maeglin had to pick someone to trust, that deeply, Celebrimbor had to be on the short list. Was the only one on the shortlist, really, he was the only one who consistently understood him, not just after his capture but before as well.

And he should probably make that—trust, that appreciation, this metaphorical opening of a door, this reciprocation if signals had been received right – he should make that clear.

(And if he had read the signals wrong – it would be terrible. To lose the trust that had been built, to shut that door – but it would be survivable. He knew that. He’d survived it before.)

He kissed Celebrimbor –

And remembered, belatedly, that he had no idea how to do that.

Celebrimbor paused – whether it was out of shock, or because he was thinking, Maeglin didn’t know.

At least he seemed to have more of an idea how to kiss, not that Maeglin was the best judge. He moved softly softly and gently gently—and that was surprisingly pleasant. And he was warm—they pressed mouth to mouth, chest to chest, body heat flowing between them, and that may have been the best part, that _contact_ \--

Celebrimbor pulled back first, and Maeglin followed suit. _“_ Was that about being very Noldor?”

“Some of it, yes,” Maeglin said.

“And the rest?”

“I did _just_ say I had a deep affection for you.”

Celebrimbor smiled, and kissed his cheek.

 

***

 

As soon as the tunnel was finished, they evacuated Gondolin. It was as orderly as an evacuation of a whole city could be, which was not very – but even so, it was a success.

‘No one dying’ counted as a success.

It was the best they could have done

Smoke drifted over the valley, falling heavy over the train of people and animals leaving the tunnel. No one spoke of it. The ashes of Gondolin swirled through the air, and settled on the mountain sides. (They had to burn it, to stop it become a stronghold for the forces of Angband, they _had to_ —but the orange sky and the thick air highlighted their Doom.)

Turgon rode out the front, in shining silver armour on a shining white horse. It was a rousing picture – out of context. Turgon wept for his lost city under his helmet, and those attuned to such things could feel the wavering of his fëa. And his gelding, as fine looking as he was, was an old horse, still sound only because of his years working only in an arena.

He was unlikely to be sound by the end of their ride down the Sirion.

Carts clattered along, laden with the treasures of Gondolin. They had learned from the Lord of Nargothrond: take everything that could possibly useful. Take it all. Do not give yourself the chance to regret leaving it behind. Children’s drawings weighed down the carts as heavily as the craft tool.

Maeglin walked mixed in people of the Mole and Hammer. He had offered to stand guard, at the edges of the train – but they wanted people who could feel the swords in their hands, and not fumble them. Which was fair, as much as he chafed at his uselessness, as much as it gave him far too much time to think.

He betrayed Gondolin – he couldn’t be certain of that, he didn’t remember doing it, but equally, he didn’t remember _not_ doing it.

 (And if he had broken, well, the torture had had some point, didn’t it? It was not pointless, arbitrary suffering. It happened for a reason.

In some ways, Morgoth being Morgoth was a reason—but not enough of one. Not enough of an explanation.)

And even if Salgant was the original traitor, it didn’t excuse being the second one, no matter how much Turgon liked that logic.

…but his confession had helped. He had done some good.

Gondolin fell, because of him, because of what he _did_ —but it fell in an orderly manner, it fell in the best way possible, also because of him. He could face Mandos and say that: ‘yes, I made the situation terrible, but I helped fix it, however inadequately I did that. …and that is a high achievement, considering I am twice-cursed.’

Gondolin may be burning, but her people weren’t.

And he may be the son of a blacksmith, of the clan of blacksmiths, who was unable to _pick up tools_ —but he was still useful. The map was useful – and he could make more, ones with even greater use. He could continuing working with Celebrimbor, and have the greatest stone knowledge in Beleriand, greater than that of the Dwarves.

…everything was still terrible.

But it could be worse. 

And ‘could be worse’ was often the best you could get.

The line shifted and twisted in the middle, as people sped up and slowed down, found their best place in the train.

Celebrimbor walked up to Maeglin, and slung an arm over his shoulder.

Maeglin leaned into it. Even with a pack on his shoulders, even as he wore all his cloaks at once, to carrying them more easily—he was warm, and that warmth swirled between them.

‘Could be worse’ wasn’t so bad.


End file.
